Category: My Poetry & Fiction

(Poem #394 on new numbering scheme)

Inscrutable, the god chose not to speak.
Instead, he hovered, watching all the souls
that sought him with their yearning eyes and hearts
and failed to note his mediocrity.

(Poem #393 on new numbering scheme)

The rain came through fast.
Is that the taste of autumn?
A moment of cool.

(Poem #392 on new numbering scheme)

A fragment of air
stalked through my room. "Listen, please,"
it whispered hoarsely.

(Poem #391 on new numbering scheme)

I slept and dreamed I took a trip.
I met a playful child.
He circled round just like a song,
recasting all as wild.

(Poem #390 on new numbering scheme)

You grasp at meanings with mind's fingers spread
out wide like wind-blown nets to try to catch
the semiotic objects which you hope
to understand. In this you mostly fail.

(Poem #389 on new numbering scheme)

Let's pick some flowers. Then we'll contemplate
how vibrant colors yield to deep despair
and we'll decide, spontaneously, that
there's nothing left to live for in this world.

(Poem #388 on new numbering scheme)

Quick! I need some verse;
it's almost midnight. A breeze
ruffles some papers.

(Poem #387 on new numbering scheme)

How anyone can learn English
I can't quite figure out.
and I'm an English teacher, see -
I shouldn't have a doubt.

(Poem #386 on new numbering scheme)

"Perhaps I'll be a floating leaf today,"
he mused, and threw himself into the brook.
He bobbed and drifted through the eddies, till
at last he washed onto a sandy beach.

(Poem #385 on new numbering scheme)

"A stone - I shall become a stone," he said.
And soon enough, he dropped, bottomward. "There."
The stream's quick waters rushed around his shape.
He sighed. "In this way, I am truly free."

[daily log: dropping, like a stone]

(Poem #384 on new numbering scheme)

Beside the window,
a single raindrop reaches
down and touches me.

(Poem #383 on new numbering scheme)

The words themselves become angry balloons,
and caricaturing the signs, begin
assaulting fellow signifiers till
at last from bloody carnage comes silence.

(Poem #382 on new numbering scheme)

Obliviously walking roads
in silent kingdoms trapped,
he runs a hand against an edge
to find what has been mapped.

(Poem #381 on new numbering scheme)

The ghosts await you, clustered at the edge
of what you know to be actually true.
Then in between the bursts of summer's rain
they peer at you, admonishing your mood.

(Poem #380 on new numbering scheme)

He casts his dull cliches into the world
like crumbs of bread dispensed to hungry birds
but worse, these birds are mere robotic shades
which cannot eat but only peck and strut.

(Poem #378 on new numbering scheme)

Some stones suggested,
take a moment. So I did.
The summer went on.

[daily log: walking; well, no]

(Poem #377 on new numbering scheme)

The floor announced itself as if alive.
I found some stray vocabulary there,
it lay in scattered piles, collectively
devoid of use or meaning. I just sighed.

(Poem #376 on new numbering scheme)

In small increments
the night eats the moon. Seasons
eat seasons, the same.

(Poem #375 on new numbering scheme)

The plants put forth their fronds aggressively
and trace their yearnings through the damp, still air.
A dragonfly is spinning tales with bits
of iridescent blues and greens and dreams.

(Poem #374 on new numbering scheme)

Today I walked more slowly than I do
more typically. I trudged instead of walked.
I can't say why this was. Perhaps I'm tired
from long hot days, or maybe full of angst.

(Poem #373 on new numbering scheme)

A particle floats
suspended in the air. Dust.
The sun's beam shows me.

(Poem #372 on new numbering scheme)

Once time became an instrument
Diaphanous but real
Then aliens could play it well -
spun like a giant wheel.

(Poem #371 on new numbering scheme)

The heat is a stone.
It's heavy and pulls down clouds.
The monsoon drizzles.

(Poem #370 on new numbering scheme)

"It's just like dust," she said without delay.
But no, it wasn't dust. It was more like
pale scatterings of quantum quarks at play
and then taking a rest - or gone on strike.
She found a bone - part of an angel's wing.
She wondered out loud, "How did this get here?"
It seemed like all was dead - yes, everything.
Her slow gaze swept around. She felt some fear.
So turning, she walked back to the strange gate.
She'd found it in her dream, and gone through quick.
But now she felt regret. It was too late.
The path was lengthening, the air grew thick.
If finally she made it back to home,
She'd never forget that dream's monochrome.

[daily log: walking, 7km]

(Poem #368 on new numbering scheme)

A few tall trees were thrusting down
their fists into the dampened earth
while trying to reach heaven's crown,
frustration foiling hope and worth.
And meanwhile buses crawled along
recondite routes because ignoring
the trees would keep them bold and strong
and vegetation is quite boring.
A cat was watching, her tail twitching,
as spirits started to emerge
between the cracks, faces bewitching,
suggesting some old hunter's urge.
In those slow buses, dull souls sat.
The trees preferred that wise gray cat.

(Poem #367 on new numbering scheme)

Pebbles on the curb;
a cluster of grass. The sun
seeks the cicadas.

(Poem #366 on new numbering scheme)

Far out in open country where dogs run,
and creatures fight each other with their sticks,
and piles of bones lie scattered here and there
beneath the trees... there I will take a rest.

(Poem #365 on new numbering scheme)

I brought him home to wash him clean.
The Rainbow Monkey dries.
He's cleaner than he was before.
But still he's not so wise.

(Poem #363 on new numbering scheme)

The weather is warm.
People are screaming outside.
Maybe they're happy.

[daily log: walking, 1km]

(Poem #362 on new numbering scheme)

Some clouds disputed with the ground and trees.
The earth kept forcing its branches skyward;
the sky in turn was throwing down droplets.
My friend and I were waiting; so we talked.
I sat and pulled out from my pocket, then,
my smartphone, checking something. Suddenly
a splash of rain struck the screen. Like magic,
the dictionary app was opened. "Look,"
my friend insisted, "there's your next poem."